


Teaching the Tigress

by MercuryGray



Series: The Royal Tigress [7]
Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Kissing Lessons, Pillow Talk, Porn with some plot, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-03 12:06:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10966878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray
Summary: Times are hard, and a man must eat, which means that Daniel Marney will take work where he can get it, even if that means making a contract with the Devil. The terms of this job, though, are a little harder to understand - and the woman in question is not making it any easier.





	1. Act 1

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies, in advance, for not making one of the fabulous Harlots ladies the subject of this work; my only defense is that the idea struck and I decided to run with it hoping it would spark other ideas.
> 
> Lavinia Montrose's collected adventures and growing backstory can be read in my series The Royal Tigress; this piece serves as a prequel to most of them. In later life she is a celebrated beauty, wit, and sometime spy; frequent readers will recognize the characteristics that will later make her famous in her own universe.

Daniel Marney studied his shoes again against the polished parquet floor and wished he’d thought to scrub a little bit more of the dirt off of the toes. They’d looked perfectly adequate when he’d put them on this morning in his lodging house, but here, in this room, against the beautifully laid wooden floor, they appeared shoddy and cheap.

 

And Lydia Quigley had no call for either of those.

 

He was unsure about this interview, after hearing all there was to hear about “Dame Death”, but a job was a job, whether it came in a sedan chair or the person of Prince Rasselas, bowing and smiling like he was royalty itself, and not just the pageboy sent with his mistress’ message. And this one sounded simple enough - the madam had a client looking for a service she did not usually offer and she was looking to contract out. What price she was offering he had not asked, but he was reconsidering his usual fee as he studied the gilding on the furniture and the quality of the draperies at the windows.

 

The house had been quiet, when he’d arrived; doubtless the girls were still abed after their exertions the night before. Still, it seemed odd to him that there should be no one about except Mrs. Quigley’s son, who answered the door in an ill-fitting wig and a cowish expression, and bid Daniel wait while he went for, as he put it, ‘his mumma.’

 

The door opened, and Daniel straightened up, hat in his hands as Dame Death herself sailed into the room, resplendent in white, her face dressed in its usual rouge and powder. But she was not alone - there was a gentleman with her, a tall, sharp looking fellow dressed in a businessman's black suit. Everything about Lydia Quigley spoke to carefully displayed refinement; the gentleman, on the other hand, seemed to suggest a kind of severe wealth - though the suit was plain, it was exceedingly well made - and the cane he carried with him was tipped with gold - but he was not seeking to display his wealth, as Lydia was. A banker, perhaps? He had that kind of look. Daniel gave his best bow and waited as the madam looked him over with a critical eye, circling. (She did not, he noted, offer him a chair, so he remained standing.) 

 

“What do you think of it?” she asked, glancing at the gentleman for his approval. “Shall it do?”

 

The Gentleman’s study was somehow quieter than Lydia’s, perhaps because he performed it from his seat rather than rustling around Daniel. But there was a hint of approval about his smile. Was this for him? Daniel had a moment of approbation - this cull looked the kind who liked Nancy Birch’s sort of games, and he did not play those just yet.

 

“How long have you been about the town, Marney?” Quigley asked, cutting straight to business.

 

“Nearly six months, ma’am.” He wondered, as he spoke, if his accent would somehow betray him. (Some of the gentry did not care for Irish voices, though some found it amusing. One of his culls had asked him to speak to her in the Gaelic and call her beautiful; he had smiled and called her a fat cow instead and she had been in raptures the rest of the night over it.)

 

“And have you any...regular clients?”

 

“None, ma’am, though I hope to change that.” Honest answers, spoken plainly. He had no reason to lie. She nodded at this, still assessing.

 

“What do you think of the theatre?” Finally, the Gentleman spoke. The question took Daniel by surprise, as did the voice - it had an authority in it.

 

“The theatre, sir?” The Gentleman gave a slow nod. “I don’t attend as often as I’d like, sir.” Another honest answer; it wouldn’t do to lie to this man. “I like a comedy, or an opera, but I prefer a drama. I like to talk about what I see after, sir.” Some ladies liked that, talking about what they’d seen. He had found, in his study of the species, that many titled ladies wanted, not just sex (though they did want that) but to be listened to - a scarce commodity from their husbands, he supposed. Perhaps men were the same? He’d not gone with too many just yet - the idea didn’t suit him quite as well.

 

This answer seemed to please him, for the Gentleman’s smile widened a little. “I am in the market for an entertainment,” he explained, rising from the couch and moving closer into Marney’s orbit. “A gift for a lady of my acquaintance.  A night at the theatre and an...interlude with a handsome gentleman. Mrs. Quigley has offered her premises, and a costume shall be provided; I should like the handsome gentleman to have some class about him - and I daresay you shall do nicely.” He reached out and let a single finger stroke Daniel’s cheek, the slim smile still hanging about his mouth, not quite disapproving but not quite approving, either. “She is very dear to me,” he added, his eyes locked on Daniel’s. “I should like her to have a  _ good _ time. Can you do that, Marney?” 

 

“I think that depends on what you mean by good, sir,” Daniel said, as straightforward as he dared. The Gentleman considered this a moment and then, without warning, pressed his lips to Daniel’s. The younger man froze a moment before responding, trying not to seem displeased with this turn of events as he made an effort to kiss back.

 

Finally the Gentleman broke the embrace, looking more pleased than he’d been the entire interview. “Yes, he shall do  _ very _ nicely,” he pronounced to Mrs. Quigley. Daniel tried not to look too confused. “One of your flouncing mollys wouldn’t do.” Ah - so the kiss had been a test - and he’d passed it by, if this could be believed, not being excited at the prospect of kissing a man. Though he could not help but be confused now - if the entertainment was for a lady, then who was the gentleman to her, if not her lover? Perhaps he played both sides? There were now more questions in Daniel’s head than answers, but he had not time to think on them; the Gentleman was speaking again.  “I have a contract, for your signature; the date is set for next week Thursday. Henry Four plays at the Roundel. You’ll dress here and return here after; I’ll have a suit sent round with my valet.”

 

“I can dress myself, sir,” Daniel put in.

 

“But not like a gentleman,” the older man said with a bit of impatience in his voice. “My Lady must have a  _ gentleman _ attend her.”

 

“Even if he’s an Irish one, sir?” 

 

Another slightly impatient frown. “I daresay the Marquess of Kildare is an  _ Irish  _ gentleman, and he is very well spoken of in town. Have you a pen, madam?” Lydia produced a writing case and laid it out upon the table, while from his pocket the Gentleman produced an official looking sleeve of paper, ribboned and bound as though it had just come from Lincoln’s Inns. Daniel thanked the lord for the interfering barristers he’d drunk with for the last several weeks as he tried to skim through what he was signing and make some sense of it - he did not get much farther than a few lines before searching, somewhat vainly, for the figure to be paid.

 

His heart stopped at it.

 

“That is after Mrs. Quigley’s fees have been accounted for,” the Gentleman said quietly. “You will see if you read the thing entire I am paying for a certain level of discretion, as well.”

 

_ You could pay that much for me to go to jail,  _ Daniel thought to himself, and wondered just who this lady was that she could be worth such a sum spent on a whore. He signed with a flourish and sprinkled a bit of sand on it so it might dry.

 

“Am I permitted to know the lady’s name?” he asked, setting the pen down and locking eyes once more with the Gentleman. ‘Your contract doesn’t give it.”

 

He smiled at that, evidently pleased that Daniel could read and had made a go of looking at what he signed before he signed it. “You may. The Lady is Lavinia Montrose - you will not know the name, she is but newly arrived in London.”

 

“And who’s she to you, sir?” Daniel asked, feeling bold. The Gentleman considered a moment, perhaps a little impressed by his cheek, and then, deciding, smiled wider.

  
“My wife.” Daniel’s surprise made him smile still more. “And if you acquit yourself well, Mr. Marney, perhaps we shall do business again. ”  And,  _ buisness _ concluded, he made his bow to Lydia and left, leaving Daniel to wonder what sort of man Mr. Montrose (Lord Montrose? Sir Montrose?) was, that he would buy a whore for his wife, and kiss the man to learn his quality, and pay such a sum that the woman might have, of all things, something as simple as an evening at the theatre.


	2. Act 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date of Marney's interlude is finally here - at last he will meet the lady. But what is Lavinia Montrose, really?

He borrowed a dog-eared, half-broken copy of Henry IV and read the whole thing cover to cover that afternoon, and tucked it into his pocket so he could pour over it while he was waiting for his passengers to emerge from the theatre. He brushed his hat until the felt shone. He beseeched his laundrywoman for the brightest white she could bring to his stockings and linen. And he gave his shoes an extremely good polish.

 

After all, it was only what a gentleman would do, wasn’t it?

 

Daniel wasn’t sure why he was trying so hard - for all he knew, Lavinia Montrose might be a cow of forty with an overbite and frowsy hair, unworthy of the appellation  _ lady _ . Not that he would know - for no one in town had heard of her, except that she was Sir James Montrose’s wife - his  _ new _ wife, at that - and that she was not of ‘The Ton’, not a name or face that was known in Society. Was she old? Feeble? Sir James  _ was _ actually a banker, as Daniel had assumed, ennobled for services to the crown; perhaps he’d married her for her money! 

 

But only their meeting would tell.

 

He’d arrived, as arranged, at Lydia Quigley’s early Thursday afternoon, knocking tentatively at the front door and being ushered in by the same cow-faced son, who bustled him upstairs past several lively looking young ladies who made frank sounds of appreciation as Marney passed. “New addition to the stable, Charlie?” one asked. “Can I help break him in?”

 

Of course they had done no such thing. There’d been a room - his room - and the valet, and a new suit of clothes in a creamy sateen worked over in beautiful embroidered flourishes and flowers, and a full tub of steaming hot washwater for him to bathe in. How strange it felt, to undress so totally when there was no one there to watch, no game to the order in which the clothes came off! He felt unsettled by it all, climbing self-consciously into the tub and taking the cloth and soap without meeting the valet’s eyes.  It seemed an age since Daniel had taken a proper bath, much less one where the water was still warm, and he lingered a bit, until Sir James’ valet cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at the clock. The bath was exited, towels applied, hair combed and queued, the new clothes adjusted, a hint of cologne-water dabbled around his person until the young gentleman (and he was now a  _ gentleman,  _ with a neatly tied cravat and silk stockings) peering out from the glass was nearly unknowable.

 

“ _ Mister _ Daniel Marney,” he said, experimenting to the mirror as he surveyed himself, smiling this way and that until the clock struck again and he rushed downstairs to a waiting coach, ready to take him to the playhouse and the evening’s assignation.

 

How different it was, to stroll in the dress circle among the boxes! To see and be seen, smile at and be smiled upon. Marney tried to keep his grins moderate and made his way slowly to the tall, severe figure of Sir James at the far end of the hall, a porter proceeding him. “Mr. Marney, sir,” the porter said, bowing and stepping back so that Sir James might turn, smiling thinly at the general effect of Daniel in his new suit.

 

“Ah, Mr. Marney. How good of you to be prompt. Had you any trouble this afternoon?”

 

“None, sir. It was all as requested.”

 

“Good. The suit fits well. And now you shall meet the lady. Lavinia!”

 

The group of ladies nearest them opened up, and from its ranks came the possessor of the name. Daniel’s mouth felt suddenly dry.

 

Lavinia Montrose was no old biddy at all, but rather a young and beautiful girl of perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with sparkling eyes, the suggestion of a splendid pair of breasts, and hair in that particular shade of red that always made his mother scowl and mutter under her breath about trouble. 

 

She was, in a word, breathtaking.

 

“Do you not remember I promised to get you a present?” Sir James asked, as his wife (his wife! Good god, that such a creature should be wasted on a man twenty years older!) came closer and took his arm in the accepted fashion, a prize of battle to be worn at one’s elbow.

 

“You said going to the theatre was to be my present,” she said with a smile. Even her voice was entrancing. 

 

“And so it is - but I thought it would be nice if Mr. Marney will join us in the box this evening.” Her husband smiled knowledgeably in Marney’s direction, but gave no indication of the reason for his presence, and his young wife seemed to ask no question about it. Did she know what he was there for? Was Montrose one of those men who liked to watch - or worse, wanted to humiliate her in some way? He struggled to hide his fears under a bland expression, while Lavinia merely looked delighted by the prospect. 

 

“Do you enjoy Shakespeare, Mr. Marney?” she asked with another irrepressible smile.  _ Kings would burn cities for that smile,  _ he thought to himself.

 

“Well, he’s not Irish.” She laughed, and he tried not to let his success get the better of him. “I prefer his tragedies, if the truth be told. Julius Caesar’s a favorite of mine.”

 

“You enjoy plays about the downfall of kings?” she asked flirtateously, her eyes daring him to disagree.

 

“I enjoy plays about men who have to make difficult decisions,” he countered, and was rewarded with, of all things, a look of polite but fascinated interest. 

 

It was one of the nicest evenings he had spent out in a long time. For all that she was his cull, Lavinia Montrose was still only a girl of seventeen, and, like all of that species, easily amused, cosseted, and flirted with, especially by a handsome man only a little bit older than herself. Daniel found himself tempering his remarks more, wondering if he was doing more harm than good by this charade, if she would not end the evening in love with him, as young women are apt to do when more than polite attention is paid to them. She had opinions - he listened to them and lightly challenged them. She wished to hear his thoughts - he gave them and let her debate with him on the relative merits of the actors, the staging, the declamation of this line or another. She was not stupid - indeed, Daniel thought she was rather better read than even some of George Howard’s friends, who could boast some half-dozen Oxford credentials between them.

 

Sir James seemed the doting spouse, smiling with what looked like genuine pleasure at Lavinia’s smiles and jokes, and watching the flirtation between them with quiet interest that seemed more paternal than matrimonial.

And still nothing was said of how the evening would end, or exactly what use the gilded room in Lydia Quigley’s house would see.

They adjourned to the Cocoa Tree after the show had finished, Lavinia anxious to finish her discussion and Sir James happy to oblige her. Every eye in the room was on them when they entered, the usual crowd making their bows to Sir James and complimenting him on his good luck at snaring such a prize as Lavinia, who blushed and smiled prettily and fluttered her fan. This, Daniel thought, was a slightly different girl than the one in the playhouse - she seemed...hidden, somehow, as if the bright mind that had so recently been on display had gone behind a cloud. 

 

“Bit young for him, isn’t she?” a familiar voice asked waspishly from over his shoulder. Charlotte looked a treat in her best blue gown, sapphires ready at her neck and ears, a streak of midnight blue winding through her wig. It brought out the color of her eyes, brighter and wilder against the other blues. He knew her hair was dark beneath the powder, and he found himself idly wondering what it would look like loose.  _ Shame, Daniel Marney. Your cull’s the one with red hair. Save your heart for another time. _ “Pretty, though. A sparkler.” Was that jealousy in her voice?

 

“Where’s Sir George this evening?” Daniel asked, looking around for Charlotte’s keeper, half-expecting to see his foppish, leering face somewhere in the crowd. 

 

“In one of the private rooms,” she said, bored. “Didn’t want me to come with - said I was bad luck this evening. So I’m entertaining myself out here with the rest. So, is it the husband or the wife you’re here to service? Or both?”

 

“Don’t be cross,” he said, feeling the sting in every one of her words. She was a little drunk, and more inclined to be malicious when she was in her cups, but why should she blame him? He had to work the same as she.

 

“I’m never cross,” she shot back, clearly meaning just the opposite. “She’ll be easy work, but good luck with him. He’s like to be Nancy’s type.”

 

“Mr. Marney, you are being rude,” Lavinia said sweetly from one of the cardtables. “You must introduce us to your friend.”

 

Daniel turned and gave what he hoped was a gracious smile, praying Charlotte’s bad temper didn’t spoil his evening. “Lady Lavinia, this is Miss Charlotte Wells. Miss Wells, Lady Lavinia Montrose and Sir James Montrose.” Why did he suddenly feel exposed, standing here with Charlotte? She in her finery and he in his - but all of it borrowed, none of it really thiers. And here was Sir James, who could pay a small fortune to make his wife happy, looking down on them like God Almighty.

 

“You’re George Howard’s girl, aren’t you?” Sir James asked from Lavinia’s shoulder, surveying Charlotte with the same sharp look with which he’d scrutinized Daniel in Lydia Quigley’s parlor. Daniel almost felt Charlotte’s hackles go up. The way Sir James said it made her sound like a piece of furniture, or worse, a slave - and Charlotte resented being thought of as that.

 

But the Queen of Pretend could play nice when she needed. “I have that  _ particular  _ honor, sir.” She smiled as though she did not hear the insult in his words and surveyed the table. “May I join you?” she asked, moving towards the table.

 

“We would be delighted,” Sir James said, moving to pull out a chair. “Please, sit down.”

 

Charlotte gave one of her most radiant smiles and arranged her skirts over the chair very much like a queen coming down to her throne, and fixed her eye on Lavinia. “What are we playing?” she asked regally, 

 

“Loo,” Sir James said with a smile. “Do you know it?”   
  
Charlotte nodded her assent, and Daniel silently thanked God and whatever angels were listening that Sir George was in the other room, the better to not see - Charlotte did not play cards so much as let them pass through her hands. She’d enough skill at vignt-et-un or hazard to muddle through a few rounds without too terrible a toll on her finances, but Loo, Quadrille, Ombre...make her take a turn at one of those and whatever money was on the table was as good as lost. Not, of course, that it mattered to Charlotte - part of the game, she had told him, was making the losing look as though it did not matter.  _ The Meteor of the Hour,  _ she said,  _ cannot care about money. _

 

_ But you’ve never seen money like Sir James’s,  _ Daniel wanted to say as the cards passed over the green baize of the gaming table.  _ He’d ruin you ten times over and never think twice about it. _

 

But there was some consolation here - Sir James was not playing. And his wife had that studious intensity about her as she peered at her cards that seemed to bode well for Charlotte - Lavinia did not look as though she knew what she was about. “Shall we partner a while, Lady Lavinia?” Charlotte asked merrily, collecting her cards and laying out her counters in front of her for the betting. Lavinia smiled, happy for the friend, and the three  gentlemen across the table smirked and surveyed their cards, happy to have procured two lovely and equally gullible companions.

 

The game started regularly enough, cards dealt, trumps announced, counters sent to the center of the table. Daniel deferred another glass of wine and tried to concentrate on following the game. The first two or three tricks went to the gentlemen across the table, while Charlotte beamed and Lavinia floundered. Charlotte took a hand - a lucky thing. And then the massacre started. Lavinia took one trick by the skin of her teeth, and then another, as easily as kiss your hand. Stunned by her good luck, she took another and another, then lost one, her face rising and falling with the tide of counters on the baize in front of her. 

 

And behind her, Sir James smiled serenely.  _ What on earth, _ Daniel wondered, as he watched the banker’s silent observations. Was it that he didn’t care for the sum she was losing? Until he realized - Montrose  _ knew when she was going to win.  _ A mathematical mind like his, an attention to detail - Daniel had heard of gamblers who could count cards, but he’d never actually seen someone do it. But what had that to do with his wife’s game? 

 

Unless -

 

Unless Lavinia could do it, too.

 

Suddenly the smiles, the girlish laughter, the suddenly light conversation after hours of heavy discussion, all made sense. Lavinia Montrose was playing the fool - and Charlotte Wells was falling right into that trap along with the other men at the table. Charlotte’s face grew stormier and stormier as trick after trick went to Lavinia, until the counters were exhausted, and Lavinia’s face was full of guileless, girlish delight at her apparent good luck. 

 

“Oh, do stay!” Lavinia said, as Charlotte rose from the table, the game finished. “We were having such fun.”

 

“I think Sir George will want me soon,” Charlotte said, the sting of losing to a witless girl taking much of the grace out of her voice. “Don’t forget your winnings.” Her eye slid from the counters to Daniel, and her meaning of ‘winnings’ was clear - the game and the man.

 

“Perhaps we should be going as well, my dear - the hour is late and we have appointments to keep,” Sir James suggested quietly. Lavinia nodded, raking the counters across the table so they might be cashed out, yielding a tidy sum of silver for Lavinia’s little reticule. Daniel noticed how Sir James’ arm was suddenly very protective around his young wife’s shoulders once she’d taken possession of the money, shielding her from unwelcome attentions as they made their exit, with Daniel following discreetly behind. 

 

“Can we drop you, Mr. Marney?” Sir James asked conversationally, as if they were just two friends sharing a carriage home. 

 

“Thank you, most kind,” Daniel said, following the couple up into the conveyance, Sir James tapping the roof when he was settled in his seat.

 

“Are we going home?” Lavinia asked, after the door had been shut and the carriage began its plodding pace forward into suburban London. Her tone, Daniel noted, indicated she’d be surprised if that was the case.  _ Did they do this often?  _

 

“I’ve a room at Mrs. Quigley’s,” her husband said. “They’ll draw you a bath tomorrow, and I’ve had your clothes sent over; it’s all been seen to.”

 

She made some small noise of assent, but no other move, retaining her seat next to Sir James, watching Daniel across the carriage. This was usually where his work began, teasing touches that hinted at what might be next when they were in less public quarters - or, if the lady was so inclined, the even more daring game of beginning the night’s revels and seeing how far they might get before the coachman heard. (There were a surprising number who wished to do this; Daniel knew all too well how sore his back would be the next day after being unceremoniously ridden in a carriage with bad springs.) But Lavinia made no motion to any of this, afraid, almost, while she sat under her husband’s watchful eyes.  But she held his hand, smiled at him, giggled when he gave her a little nudge that meant something in their own private, unspoken language.  _ What does he want here?  _ The question was driving Daniel mad. To sire a son on her? Such a thing was not unheard of, for a man to take his mistress’ child to fill a barren wife’s cradle. 

 

“You’ll want these,” he said, producing a pair of italian masks from the seat beside him, the large, anonymous black  _ bauta  _ of the  _ commedia del’arte. You remember I had paid for a certain level of discretion, _ Daniel remembered. The carriage was slowing down, the driver calling his horses to a stop.

 

“Aren’t you coming in?” Lavinia asked, taking the mask from him and realizing he was only carrying two.   
  


Sir James smiled, kissed her hand. “I’m tired, my dear. I shan’t join you. I’ll send the carriage around in the morning for you.”

 

If this was a surprise to Lavinia, her mask hid it well, for she only nodded, opening the carriage door and dismounting onto the waiting hand of the footman below. Daniel moved towards the door of the carriage, only to feel Sir James’ hand on his arm.

 

“Marney.” He stopped, looked back at the older man, his face half-hidden in the darkness of the carriage. “Give her what she wants - whatever she wants. A good time.”

 

What was this man, that he could so easily let his wife go off with another, and yet ask so passionately that she have whatever she wanted? Again Daniel felt as though he were depriving a father of his daughter. “Sir.” 

 

Sir James nodded, approving of his tone, and Daniel, too, pulled on the black  _ bauta _ and descended into anonymity, Lavinia clasping his arm with proprietary care as soon as he was in the street, pulling him towards the front door of Quigley’s, now manned, as it was not during the day, by a resplendent butler. Lavinia dropped a token into his palm, and they passed in.

 

Marney had been in sporting houses when the heat of business was on them, but never a house like Quigley’s - here there was no raucous laughter or wild shouting, or even the obvious advertisement, by sound, of the activities taking place upstairs. A harpsichord tinkled in the corner, what laughter there was resonant but of reasonable volume. The gentlemen here all wore frock-coats and silk shoes, their hair powdered and curled, hands curled around the crystal stems of glasses or the pale, powdered arms of Quigley’s girls. Several faces turned as they entered, their masks making them conspicuous. “Private clients, I’m sure,” he heard someone say from somewhere in the room. “Quigley will give you rooms, for a fee. Discreet as anything, but damned if you don’t pay later, too.”

 

But Lavinia was already going up the stairs, and Marney followed, the sounds of lovemaking a little more obvious on this, the house’s second level. But there were no open doors here, no fleeting glimpses between curtains of bare backs and arms and breasts and bored women being plowed on their knees, their eyes flying to the corridor for some flash of entertainment. Everything was discreetly closed, the only clues to what was going on inside the muted sounds of amorous congress.

 

Marney wasn’t quite quick enough for Lavinia - she disappeared inside an open door before he had quite caught up with her. The room in which he’d dressed looked different now in the candle-light, but she was nowhere to be seen. “Let me change.” Her voice emerged from behind the dressing screen. “This dress is heavier than I thought. There’s wine, there, if you like.”

 

Daniel unstoppered the decanter and poured himself a glass, making up for the lack of liquid courage during the heart-stopping game of Loo. 

 

“She didn’t like me - your Miss Wells.” The observation was offered from behind the screen amidst the heavy rustle of petticoats.

 

Daniel  bristled at the thought of being so conspicuous in his affections, especially when they were not returned. “She’s not my Miss Wells.” 

 

“Isn’t she? I thought it was quite obvious. But I am told to look for things like that.”

 

His eyes flew to the dressing screen, wondering if he’d heard her correctly. “Told?”

 

“It is part of my training. Sir James likes me to look for things, listen to people.” She emerged from behind the screen, dress and ornament abandoned for a long, softly patterned banyan over her corset and chemise, not adept enough, it seemed, to undress fully without the help of a maid - or a lover. She poured herself a glass of wine and crossed the room to the garish four-poster, the ribbons holding her garters up flashing red as she climbed onto the bed.

 

“Why did you marry him?” Daniel wondered aloud.  _ Surely it wasn’t a love match. _

 

“My father lost a bet.” He could not help but stare, but this seemed perfectly normal to Lavinia, who took no notice of his surprise. “Sir James needed a likely wife. He is not a bad husband, really; He loves me, in his own way. He is ...not interested in me as a lover, so that is no bother to me.” She said this knowing she should be grateful to be ignored, when so many other women had more of their husbands’ attentions than they could comfortably accommodate - and the children to prove it.

 

“He likes boys, then?” That explained the kiss -  for Sir James had enjoyed it, if Daniel had not.

 

Lavinia nodded, playing with the lace on the edge of her robe. “He says I may do as I like, when I’m older and have learned things.”

 

The words, as she said them, did not quite make sense, until he let them linger in his head a while and the truth came out, the listening and looking and the vague talk of  _ training  _ and  _ learning things  _ and  _ doing what she liked.   _  “...He’ll make you a harlot?”

 

Wasn’t that what Margaret Wells said Lydia Quigley did, collecting men’s secrets through sex? But Lavinia’s eyes challenged him. “He’ll make me the greatest lady of the age - like your Miss Wells. And before you say again she is not your Miss Wells,” she added quickly, sitting up and getting ready to defend her position, “she scowled at me for most of the card game and  - and when you counseled her not to bet against me at the end of the game, she listened.”

 

“But she still played the hand!”

 

“Listening and obeying are two different things,” the young woman said sagely, sitting back on her pillows. “I do not think Charlotte Wells obeys anyone. So she is yours, Mr. Marney, in her mind -- for I do not think she listens to Sir George as she does to you.” She let that sit a while. “She was jealous of me, even before she lost at cards,” she offered quietly. “Because I could take you home and have you to myself.”

 

_ That may be true, and it may not,  _ Daniel thought to himself.  _ I’m not sure what Charlotte Wells wants. Come to that, I’m not sure  _ **_she_ ** _ knows what she wants.  _ “Do  _ you _ want that?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He was curious now, and cautious. He did not want to abuse her, take something she did not want to give. Was he to be just another unthinking gift a husband threw at his wife, thinking it would please her? 

 

She looked at him with surprise. “You’re the first one who’s asked.”

 

What was this trick of saying things he did not understand? His silence asked his questions for him, and she shrugged and smiled. “I used to kiss the footmen, when I first came to Sir James’s house, to see what it was like. I thought the practice would help, would...make him want me. And the stablehands, sometimes. They kissed back, and always...thought I wanted more. And I let them... but none of them  _ asked _ . Sir James sacked them, and told me that it wasn’t my fault that he…” Again another shrug, attempting to pass the thing off as inconsequential. ”He said I should never tup the help, even when I was bored, and that if I wanted... amusements or... lessons, he would find them for me.”

 

Daniel turned this over in his mind a minute, thinking of the young woman before him and some faceless footman, rogering her against an anonymous wall like a backalley whore while she offered no resistance, tried to find something in it no one would name for her.  It made him want to hit something. “And is that what I am to be? A lesson?”

 

“If you like,” she offered. “Do you like me, Mr. Marney?”

 

The earnestness of her question took him aback. There was no guile in it, no game - only a girl who wanted the truth. He looked at her bright eyes, her coppery hair, coming down from its courtly cascade atop her head. Loose around her shoulders now, she looked younger, more vulnerable. He could not help but cup her face and stroke her cheek, and she watched him carefully, studying his responses like a hawk, or some kind of lion stalking her prey. “You’re very beautiful, Lavinia Montrose,’ he began, weighing his words. “Other men will say it because they wish to bargain with you, but I have no bargain to strike, and I say it now because it is true, and you should hear it once from someone who has nothing to gain by saying it.”

 

She was silent in her surprise, and he realized what had been bothering him since they’d left the Cocoa Tree. He had thought, at first, that she reminded him more of Charlotte, sharp and impish, and she was that, but there was something, too, of Lucy in her, a girl too good for the use she was put to, a child trying too hard to do a woman’s work. Some of that surprise at cards had been her own, amazed that all her hours in the schoolroom were finally paying out. And he decided.  _ The world will try to make you sharp and mean, Lavinia Montrose, but do not lose your softness _ , he wished, as he laced his fingers into her hands and kissed her lips, her cheeks, the small shell of her ear.  _ Other men will use you, but tonight I will let you have use of me. _

 

And he kissed her as he wished he could kiss Charlotte, sweetly and slowly, easing her into the figures of love as reverently and gently as he could, letting her lead, undressing him and exploring his body. It was a different kind of work than what was usually required of him, but he could not go about it any other way, after what she had said.  _ Would that someone had done this for Charlotte, _ he found himself thinking, wondering if somewhere along the way she’d had a boy who’d kissed her because she wanted him to, and not because he’d paid for it and felt it his right. 

 

When he’d finished, the first time, and they lay together breathing, he told her what a man means when he leaves, and when he lingers. He let her trace the lines of his body through the sweat, and laughed when she accidentally tickled him. It made her smile a little, his laughter, and he kissed her again in all the soft, small places like the insides of her knees and the crook of her elbow to make her laugh, too, and let her body go limp again. Then he asked if she was done with lessons, or if she would like another of herself, and she nodded, so he took her hand and traced between her legs so she would know herself, the pulses and pleasures of her own body, and kissed her there until she came with a surprised cry she tried to shove back into her mouth, as if she were ashamed of it. 

  
The candles were low in their holders by the time lessons were finished, and he blew them out, one by one, and then padded back to bed. She turned over, naked and sleepy, and pillowed into his shoulder like a kitten, pleased and warm. He considered moving her away, but thought the better of it, pressing a kiss to her forehead and pulling the coverlet up around him so he, too, might sleep a little, in a bed that did not poke in a room that did not smell with a woman who had not paid him for his time, who wanted only the simple pleasure of being held and told that she was beautiful, that she was wanted, that she was capable of being loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Lavinia's interacted with different characters over her last several stories, I've teased out a lot about her - but one of the things that always comes out is that she uses sex to get what she wants from some men. She had to learn how to do that somewhere - and since she isn't called The Tigress for nothing, it stands to reason that at some point Sir James made sure she had lessons on how to please a man in bed. There's also a strong suggestion in several of her stories that Sir James strongly disapproved of some of her earliest liasons, and that he made a point of 'vetting' some of her lovers in order that she wouldn't get hurt.


	3. Act 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

It felt far too early when the housemaid came to wake him, rudely shaking him awake with an urgent hand. “Breakfast is on the tray,” she hissed. “You can wash and eat. Your clothes are there; they’ll be needing the shirt back.”

 

Lavinia’s head was still resting on his shoulder, and he eased her off of him to go as he was bid. There was a pot of coffee, and a plate of white rolls and butter, served on dainty china that had no chips in it. “Come on!” the maid hissed. Daniel took the shirt she was shaking at him and rummaged at the foot of the bed for the one he’d been wearing, passing it to her as silently as he could and tucking into a roll.

 

“Wait.” The maid froze as Lavinia stirred, sitting up in bed. “Why are you making him leave?” she asked, pulling the sheet demurely around her breasts. 

 

“Didn’t want him to disturb your breakfast, miss,” the maid said, looking down at the floor.

 

“He isn’t disturbing anything,” Lavinia said, a little of the haughty lady creeping into her voice. “Sir James has paid for the room already, we are not depriving you of custom. He shall stay as long as he likes and drink as much of my coffee as he chooses. I shall ring the bell when we require you.” She might have been naked but she sounded like a queen enthroned, and the poor maid, duly chastised, made her exit and snapped the door shut behind her. Lavinia smiled, and was once more the girl rather than the queen, almost impressed again with how well her little bit of play-acting had gone. “You may go, if you wish,” she offered, softer now, her tone no longer one of command. “I am sure you do not often...stay. I am sure you have other engagements.”

 

“None,” he said, holding his coat and sitting down to ease out of his shoes. 

 

“...then will you eat with me?” she asked, pulling the sheet with her as she rose from the bed, a charming kind of Venus coming out of a sea of sheets. She was evidently looking for something - her chemise, most likely. Daniel found it at the foot of the bed and offered it to her, averting his eyes while she let the sheet go and pulled the garment over her head. Her shyness was charming, after he had seen the fearless lady, and he pulled her chair out, letting her pour the coffee after she made a small noise of objection.

 

“Sometimes Sir James comes to my room, in the morning after a party, and we take breakfast together,” she explained, filling first his cup and then hers with an expert hand. Daniel watched the little bit of domestic ceremony with fascination, the fluted spout of the coffeepot and the dark, steaming arc of the coffee, the way her wrists curved and her hand rested on the lid to hold it in place. “And we talk of what I’ve heard.”

  
“What will you tell him today?” Daniel asked.

 

“There were things I heard in the coffeehouse, while we were playing cards. Bits of gossip. And I will say who I saw downstairs, when we arrived,” she said, sipping her coffee. “Sir Herbert, and Lord Graystone, and Lord Innismore - who they were with. About Mrs. Quigley’s maids, and how they know who goes to bed with whom, and who stays the night, and who doesn’t.”

 

“It’s the harloting you do with your clothes on that matters,” Daniel said offhandedly, repeating advice that Charlotte had given him once. Lavinia looked surprised at the remark, but she almost nodded at it, recognizing what he said was true. “And ...when he asks about your lessons?” he wondered aloud.

 

She paused, thinking. “I will say they went well,” she decided, and she smiled a little at him, the word  _ well _ containing multitudes. “He does not have to know everything.” The little bit of disobedience made her smile wider, a shared secret just between the two of them. “Here, before you go -” She rose from her chair and rummaged in the mess of her dress and her evening things for her reticule, which she found, eventually, withdrawing from inside a little velvet sack and a stack of coins. “Sir James said I should give this to you, if I...was satisfied,” she said, setting the velvet down on the table. “But I should like you to have this, too.” She dropped the rest of the coins on the table, trying to keep them in a manageable heap. “My winnings, from last night,” she explained. “Give them back to her, with my compliments. It was ...cruel of me, to take both them and you.” Who the ‘her’ was remained unsaid. Lavinia paused, and smiled.  “And tell her thank you, when you see her. It must be hard, to ...love a harlot.” She said this with such sincerity that Daniel’s heart skipped, for her voice said one thing but her eyes another, that it must be difficult for him to love Charlotte and for Charlotte to love him -- and, perhaps, that it would be difficult for anyone to love Lavinia. He nodded, slipping the purse and the coins into his pocket where they could not jingle too much.

 

“Should you like to see me again, do you think?” he asked, trying not to look too interested in the weight of the purse as he slipped it into his coat pocket.

 

“I would not mind it,” she admitted. “But perhaps...only as a treat. As tonight was.”  _ I must be ready for many nights that are not as nice as this,  _ her voice implied, and he thought again of Lucy, lingering in the back of the rooms in Greek Street, watching her sister blaze with confidence, surveying the proceedings with a frightened eye knowing that one day she would take her turn on the same stage, and require the same applause.

 

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Lady Lavinia,” Daniel said, and kissed her hand, and though it was a lie, the feeling in his heart when she smiled to hear it was not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And scene! Not the longest, I know -my apologies for not including it with the previous chapter.
> 
> Does Lavinia see more of Daniel? I don't really think so - but of course, anything can happen. One wonders, too, if the Pineapple of Great Britain will feel differently about meeting The Tigress a few years down the road, after she's gotten a chance to sharpen her claws a little and do a bit of harloting of her own...
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed - it means a great deal to read your reactions.

**Author's Note:**

> I knew after watching Harlots that I had to bring Lavinia into this world, but since it takes place nearly ten years before her other adventures, it was only fitting that it not be Lavinia the famed Tigress who makes an appearance, but Lavinia the tigress-in-training, not quite a maneater yet but a young woman who has the potential to go in that direction. And we get to see more of Sir James, who always seems to lurk in the background of his wife's adventures. 
> 
> Those of you who follow Lavinia's adventures know that she and Charlotte Wells have a lot in common - strong-willed women who are too good for the men who monopolize their time, smart and canny and with a certain ear for trouble. I liked the idea of putting Lavinia between them, with Charlotte almost becoming a role model for the much younger Lavinia.


End file.
